After an exhibition.

My life for a moment is observation.

I am digesting papers. Taxi drivers
in a static queue talk through open windows

and gesture through closed ones. Three flags—
Scottish, British, EU—wave similarly but out of sight.

A women with large hair struggles past. Her heels
are taller than my thumb is long. There is a ladder

I have never noticed before. A man who has had
a full Sunday yawns past trying to fit it into his mouth.

The world in a digital viewfinder skims past
in the hand of an enthusiast. Newcastle is at an angle.

There are seats outside but no-one's in them.
I catch someone's eye in the window I had forgotten was there.

There are lots of flowers, gaudy and brilliant.
And now a yellow car and no-one to punch; I am reading

about tennis and missing the best match.
I have no plans tonight.